GATOR: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 2) by Faith Winslow Page A
Authors: Faith Winslow
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glasses—he looked like a high school kid dressed up as a detective for Halloween, one who’d borrowed his dad’s coat and hat to complete the outfit.
He looked ridiculous, which confirmed my earlier conclusion. Yes, Barnes was the perfect partner for this case. I needed someone like him at my side for this trip and interrogation.
“Sorry it took me so long,” Barnes said, walking up beside me. “I’ve never been out of town on a case before and didn’t know what to pack.” Indeed, he’d stated the obvious. His “overnight bag” wasn’t a bag, but a suitcase, and it looked expanded at its belly.
“Well, you’re here now,” I said, patting Barnes on the shoulder pad. “And we don’t have any more time to waste—so let’s get going.”
With that, I rushed out of the station, to my car, with Barnes lugging his heavy suitcase behind me. I didn’t look forward to the ride ahead of us, or what would happen when we got to our destination, but I swear, I’d never been so motivated to get anywhere in my entire life.
Chapter 10
September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California
San Francisco is about a five or six hour drive from L.A. So when I turned myself in for questioning at L.A.P.D., I knew I’d be in holding for at least that long, waiting for J.T. to come interrogate me.
But I knew that she would come, and that alone made the waiting worth it. What’s six hours when you’re waiting to see someone you haven’t seen in over ten years? And what’s six hours to someone who did six months in jail?
I could wait over six hours if I had to, and trust me, I had to. If someone had their sights set on J.T. and me, like I told Hammer, I wasn’t going to let us be sitting ducks. But I wasn’t going to let us be walking targets either. If someone was trying to get me—or J.T., or both of us—they couldn’t get us while we were in an interrogation room in the police station. So that’s why I had to turn myself in for questioning, why I had to wait over six hours in holding, and why I told Hammer to go talk to Crete.
Crete, if you’re wondering, is the Wolves’ “boss” and “leader.” He’s the one who calls all the shots and sets all of our agendas. He makes up our rules and handles the shit when one of us breaks them. He’s also the one who protects us, helps us, and shows us how to serve the better good—and he’s the one to go to whenever there’s a problem… And my current predicament was definitely a big problem.
If Hammer was right—and I had no doubt he was—Pigpen’s murder meant that the Wolves had been compromised, somehow or some way, and that someone had access to our info, which they were trying to use against us. And I, surely, wasn’t their primary target. There ain’t many folk who got a personal vendetta against me specifically. I never really did that much to warrant revenge—at least not revenge like this.
Sure, I mighta slept with a guy’s girlfriend here and there—maybe even slept with a guy’s wife, or damn, maybe even his mother. I may have pissed off some folks partyin’ too loud and causin’ a scene, and I may have hit a little too hard when it came to takin’ care of business. But, I never done nothing so bad that it’d call for settin’ me up for a junkie’s murder, or for dragging her into it.
Her , of all people! Whoever was behind this sure knew where to hit me. But they underestimated me. I threw myself in front of a gator for J.T. once. And now I’d do whatever it took to protect her again. That dumb-shit who killed Pigpen pulled the wrong card when it came to playin’ ole Gator!
“Struthers,” the jail guard shouted, approaching the holding cell from the far end of the hallway. “Carl Struthers, you have a visitor.”
I’d had my eyes closed for some time—doing what some people call meditating—and it took me a moment to get back to the real world.
“A visitor?” I asked, opening my eyes. I’d had them shut so long that
He looked ridiculous, which confirmed my earlier conclusion. Yes, Barnes was the perfect partner for this case. I needed someone like him at my side for this trip and interrogation.
“Sorry it took me so long,” Barnes said, walking up beside me. “I’ve never been out of town on a case before and didn’t know what to pack.” Indeed, he’d stated the obvious. His “overnight bag” wasn’t a bag, but a suitcase, and it looked expanded at its belly.
“Well, you’re here now,” I said, patting Barnes on the shoulder pad. “And we don’t have any more time to waste—so let’s get going.”
With that, I rushed out of the station, to my car, with Barnes lugging his heavy suitcase behind me. I didn’t look forward to the ride ahead of us, or what would happen when we got to our destination, but I swear, I’d never been so motivated to get anywhere in my entire life.
Chapter 10
September 15, 2015–Los Angeles, California
San Francisco is about a five or six hour drive from L.A. So when I turned myself in for questioning at L.A.P.D., I knew I’d be in holding for at least that long, waiting for J.T. to come interrogate me.
But I knew that she would come, and that alone made the waiting worth it. What’s six hours when you’re waiting to see someone you haven’t seen in over ten years? And what’s six hours to someone who did six months in jail?
I could wait over six hours if I had to, and trust me, I had to. If someone had their sights set on J.T. and me, like I told Hammer, I wasn’t going to let us be sitting ducks. But I wasn’t going to let us be walking targets either. If someone was trying to get me—or J.T., or both of us—they couldn’t get us while we were in an interrogation room in the police station. So that’s why I had to turn myself in for questioning, why I had to wait over six hours in holding, and why I told Hammer to go talk to Crete.
Crete, if you’re wondering, is the Wolves’ “boss” and “leader.” He’s the one who calls all the shots and sets all of our agendas. He makes up our rules and handles the shit when one of us breaks them. He’s also the one who protects us, helps us, and shows us how to serve the better good—and he’s the one to go to whenever there’s a problem… And my current predicament was definitely a big problem.
If Hammer was right—and I had no doubt he was—Pigpen’s murder meant that the Wolves had been compromised, somehow or some way, and that someone had access to our info, which they were trying to use against us. And I, surely, wasn’t their primary target. There ain’t many folk who got a personal vendetta against me specifically. I never really did that much to warrant revenge—at least not revenge like this.
Sure, I mighta slept with a guy’s girlfriend here and there—maybe even slept with a guy’s wife, or damn, maybe even his mother. I may have pissed off some folks partyin’ too loud and causin’ a scene, and I may have hit a little too hard when it came to takin’ care of business. But, I never done nothing so bad that it’d call for settin’ me up for a junkie’s murder, or for dragging her into it.
Her , of all people! Whoever was behind this sure knew where to hit me. But they underestimated me. I threw myself in front of a gator for J.T. once. And now I’d do whatever it took to protect her again. That dumb-shit who killed Pigpen pulled the wrong card when it came to playin’ ole Gator!
“Struthers,” the jail guard shouted, approaching the holding cell from the far end of the hallway. “Carl Struthers, you have a visitor.”
I’d had my eyes closed for some time—doing what some people call meditating—and it took me a moment to get back to the real world.
“A visitor?” I asked, opening my eyes. I’d had them shut so long that
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